


Love the Lonely

by Kangofu_CB



Series: Barton's Halfway House for Ex-Brainwashed Assassins [3]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, BUT IT COMES TO AN END IN THIS ARC, Clint Barton & Natasha Romanov Friendship, Clint Barton Feels, Clint Barton Needs a Hug, Clint Barton's Farm, First Dates, First Time, First Time Blow Jobs, First Time Topping, Found Family, Hand Jobs, Internalized Homophobia, Kid Fic, Love Confessions, M/M, Mention of promiscuity, Natasha Romanov Is a Good Bro, Natasha is not above manipulating Clint into compliance for his own good, Not Canon Compliant, Pre-Canon, SHIELD Agent Clint Barton, SHIELD agent Natasha Romanov, Slow Burn, and possibly a swift kick, but he gets over it, early aughts fashion and technology, kind of, mentions of Clint's traumatic childhood, mentions of homophobic family members
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-11
Updated: 2021-03-14
Packaged: 2021-03-17 19:47:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29971386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kangofu_CB/pseuds/Kangofu_CB
Summary: Clint Barton Is Definitely Not In Love With James Barnes...right?
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Clint Barton
Series: Barton's Halfway House for Ex-Brainwashed Assassins [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1467970
Comments: 52
Kudos: 135





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is the continuation of a huge project for me, one that's super close to my heart and that I've been working on for a long time. It started out as "What if the secret family on Clint Barton's secret farm was actually Bucky Barnes and their adopted murder children?" and here we are.
> 
> To say this section of the story went grossly out of control is... a bit of an understatement. I had an outline. And then Clint and Bucky said 'fuck your outline' and here we are. Instead, this section covers a much shorter amount of time for me than previous installments, but is micro-focused on Clint coming to accept that fact that he is actually in love with James and probably has been for some time. There is some fairly mild internalized homophobia, especially at the beginning, so please protect yourselves. 
> 
> For everyone suffering, waiting for the slow burn of this fic to finally pan out, you might note that the rating has ticked up to Explicit! 
> 
> If explicit fic is not your jam, this fic may not be for you. The first couple of chapters are G rated, but it turns explicit midway through chapter 3 and sort of stays there. There's a fair amount of relationship building and character development that happen within those boundaries, so it's hard to pull it apart. I will try to sum up anything that happens in those chapters at the end for those who prefer to skip explicit fic. 
> 
> This is part three of SIX (we now have six! dammit!) separate parts that deal with different periods of time in Clint, Bucky, and Natasha's lives. This section is focused on James and Clint's growing romantic relationship, their feelings for each other and how they approach that, and ultimately how they fall in love, and I hope you all like it.

**October 5, 2001**

“It’s just me!” Clint called, shouldering his way through the front door and ignoring the twinge of pain in his wrist. “I brought presents!” 

James leaned out of the kitchen so that he could see into the entryway, where Clint was balancing a couple of boxes in his good hand, a duffle bag on his shoulder, and trying to kick his boots off without unlacing them all at once. There was a sigh of exasperation and then James was taking the boxes out of his hand, giving Clint a critical once-over.

“What did you do to yourself this time?”

“Nothing!” Clint said, offended, then wilted under the disbelieving look he got in return. “I might have strained my wrist a tiny bit. It’s nothing.” 

James rolled his eyes, before shuffling so that his shoulders were braced under Clint’s bad arm as he wedged his boots off with his toes. “And how did you manage that?”

“Caught myself on the edge of a building,” Clint grunted. 

“Were you on your way down the side of it?” 

Clint paused in his struggle to give James a judgmental side-eye. “And what if I was?”

“Idiot,” James said, but it was said fondly, and he remained a sturdy armrest as Clint finally managed to get both boots off of his feet. “How long are you gonna be home?”

“Coupla weeks,” Clint said, reaching for the boxes, but James kept them out of reach. 

“Wash up,” he said. “Dinner’s in twenty.”

Clint sighed aggressively, but he obligingly trudged up the stairs to the bathroom, where his usual shampoo-conditioner combo was in the shower and there were fresh towels in the closet. Coming back to the farm was honestly better than going home to Bed-Stuy in his opinion, because at least there were always towels and soap, and any laundry he left behind was washed and neatly folded. Also the water pressure was better and he never ran out of hot water, which was way more than he could say about his apartment. 

By the time he came back downstairs, freshly showered and in a worn out tshirt and sweats, he already felt better than he had in weeks. The last mission he’d gone on with Natasha hadn’t been a disaster, per se, but his wrist was aching and his shoulder hurt too, and Coulson had given him an unreadable look just before he’d put him on medical leave, advising him to do a better job looking after himself. 

“Is that a new fence?” Clint asked, settling down at the table and waiting for whatever James put in front of him to eat. It was no secret that Clint wasn’t the least bit picky, but there was something about coming back to Iowa for a home-cooked meal that Clint couldn’t deny loving, regardless of whatever that meal was. Anything was better than the chow hall, and while Clint loved pizza, nothing beat homemade. 

Nathan was big enough that he was eating at the table with them instead of in a high chair. He was three and a half now, and his vocabulary was sometimes better than Clint’s, not to mention his ability to rip down just about anything that got in his way. James seemed to be managing it okay though, because all the doors were still on their hinges and Nate had better table manners than half the agents Clint worked with. He was currently scooted as close to Clint as he could get, his chair so close that Clint couldn’t really use his left arm at all. Which was fine, because it was wrapped in a splint and an ace bandage, so he wasn’t meant to be doing much of anything with it anyway. 

“I drawed a picture,” Nate said, conversationally. He was trying to get spoonfuls of corn - cut off the cob for ease of eating - into his mouth, and was only partially successful. Clint suspected he had a lap full of kernels that were just waiting to fall into the floor as soon as they stood him up.

“Oh yeah?” Clint said, glancing down at him. “What did you draw a picture of?”

“Our family,” Nate told him placidly, fully focused on getting the corn into the spoon. “I drawed you and Auntie Nat, and Papa, and Dog.”

“You got a dog?” Clint asked, confused, and James blew a sigh out through his nose that sounded like it had been dragged out of his _bones_. 

“That’s what the fence is for but-”

Clint was distracted from James’ explanation by a scrabbling at the back door that made him tense up, but James just sighed again, exasperation radiating from his pores. There was an old dog door in the backdoor, though Clint had no idea why as they’d never had a dog when he’d been a kid, and the scrabbling was coming from there, something trying to make its way through the decrepit flap. 

After a moment, a fuzzy head poked its way through, along with two floppy ears and a long snout and for a second Clint thought they’d got the world’s ugliest dog and then-

“Is that a _goat_?” he asked, delighted for reasons he couldn’t quite articulate. 

“It’s Dog!” Nate said, sounding as stubborn as James had ever been, a mulish look on his face. 

“Yeah,” James sighed, getting up to herd the animal towards a set of metal bowls near the cabinets that Clint hadn’t noticed before. “It’s a goat.”

“A goat named Dog?” Clint checked, the delight in his chest spreading until it was coming out in his voice too. 

“I let Nate name him.”

“Dog!” Nate said again, squirming like he was going to climb out of his chair, until James fixed him with a look. 

“You eat your dinner and Dog can eat hers, and then you can pet her,” James said firmly, and Nate settled back down. 

“Why do you have a goat?”

“ _We_ have a goat,” James emphasized, “because I am a _sucker_.” 

Clint waited expectantly for an explanation that was clearly not forthcoming. Dog the goat crunched on whatever it was that was in her bowl, Nate continued to shovel corn mostly into his lap, with the occasional foray into the chicken and potatoes that were also on his plate, as James stared at his plate determinedly not meeting Clint’s gaze. 

“What are you a sucker for?” Clint finally asked. 

James groaned. “Elena has goats, you know?”

Of course Clint knew. He’d been enjoying the fruits of her goat farm labor for years now, goat cheese being at the top of his list of things he never expected to like but practically ate his weight in anytime he was at the farm, not to mention the chickens in the coop outside, which had grown in number since the handful James had started out with, and the little vegetable plot that James coaxed carefully into growth every spring, crouched over dark turned earth as he planted sprouts into meticulously-measured spaces. Clint didn’t _know_ Elena - he’d never even met her, in fact - but he knew _about_ her. 

“Okay,” he said, cautiously.

“So she had this goat, and it couldn’t get along with the other goats, apparently she wanted to be head goat or some shit, and Elena didn’t _say_ what she was going to do with her but she kind of _implied_ …”

Clint snorted a laugh. “And now you’re a goat dad.” And a dad-dad. Clint didn’t usually comment on it, but every time he came home, James had settled a little more into the single-dad role, comfortable in jeans and long-sleeved t-shirts with dirty boots and Nathan’s artwork on the fridge. There were still weapons stashed here and there, but Clint didn’t think he’d ever get past that point. They were fewer and more carefully hidden, but the edge of anxiety that James had first carried with him all the time had blunted, softened at the edges. He was making a place for himself and Nathan in Waverly, in Clint’s old home, and something about that gave Clint a softly bruised feeling in his chest that he did his best to ignore.

James shot him a glare, but Clint just shrugged. If the shoe fit, or whatever. James was, by all appearances, a natural-born mother-hen, so if he was parenting a goat now, it didn’t surprise Clint at all. 

“Just for that, you get to do bathtime,” James grumbled, stabbing at his plate. 

Nate shot Clint a bright-eyed grin, though, and the joke was on James, he hadn’t got to put the kid to bed for weeks, and soaking the bathroom in bubbles and then having a bedtime tickle fight sounded like _exactly_ what Clint needed after a long mission. 

“I want _you_ to put me to bed,” Nathan said, giving Clint a wide-eyed, bright grin that was like a punch to the gut. 

“Of course I will, buddy.” Clint said. “You just gotta eat your dinner first.”

“I’m done!” he announced, pushing the plate away. It was mostly-eaten, if you ignored the fact that there was more corn in his lap than in his stomach, probably, and Clint gave James a questioning glance. He just shrugged, and Clint stood Nathan up on his chair, brushing the corn into the floor to be swept up later. Was it the best way to handle it? Probably not. Was it effective? Absolutely. And Clint was all about what was the most effective solution, even if that meant diving off a building to avoid an explosion. 

He swung Nate up onto his hip and began the trek upstairs, heading for the same bathroom he’d used earlier. Nathan ran to the closet when Clint sat him down, digging out bubble bath and a green towel with a dinosaur hood as Clint ran water into the tub. 

He hadn’t quite thought the situation through, his wrist still wrapped and splinted, and in the end he decided to just take the wrapping down and take his chances with his hand. If he hurt it more that just meant more time off work, honestly, and Clint could use the break. Natasha had elected to stay behind - eager to punish some new recruits on the training courses - but Clint just wanted some downtime. He was long since past the days of enjoying recruit training, and the watercooler gossip about him and Nat still raged on unabated, despite everything he did to the contrary. 

Natasha told him he might as well accept it, that it was only to their benefit to let people think what they wanted, but it bothered Clint sometimes. Mostly because it meant people assumed he was the type of guy to take advantage of someone so much younger than him, however much training she’d had before they’d met. Though, to be fair, most people tended to assume Natasha had taken advantage of him rather than the other way around, which was laughable. 

Clint was pulled from his thoughts by a splash to the face, Nate giggling at the bubbles and dragging toys around the tub, talking to himself. “Keep the water in the tub,” Clint reminded him, and Nate at least had the grace to look a bit sheepish about it before he was distracted again by the boats and sea creatures he was playing with. Clint did manage to get his hair washed and his toes scrubbed before he was yawning and clearly ready to be put to bed. Clint lifted him out, ignoring the twinge in his arm as he dried him off, before dressing him in the pajamas and pull-up James had dropped off sometime when Clint hadn’t been paying much attention. Then it was teeth brushing and snuggles and soft snores and drool, before Clint was easing himself out of the bedroom, shutting the door gently behind him. 

When he turned around James was holding the splint and the ace bandage out with a slightly accusatory look on his face.

“What?” Clint whisper-hissed. 

“You shoulda told me you needed help,” James hissed right back, catching exactly the same note. 

“I’m fine,” Clint grumbled, easing the brace back on his hand and re-wrapping the limb with the efficiency of a man who’d done it often enough before. “It was a bath, not a sniper mission.”

“Still, I-”

“I brought a new movie,” Clint interrupted, talking over James, loud enough to drown out whatever he’d been about to say, like Clint couldn’t manage to _bathe a child_ without help, but still quiet enough not to wake said child up. 

James huffed an exasperated sound, but he looked at Clint expectantly. “What’d you bring?” he asked, resigned, like he wasn’t looking forward to it already. He could try to hide it, but Clint knew the truth. It wasn’t like James was getting out to the newest movies, even if he had managed to get Nate into some kind of part-time day care situation, a few hours a couple of days a week where he could interact with other kids and give James a little time to himself. He wasn’t out seeing the hot new releases.

Not that Clint was either, jetting all over the world for missions with or without Natasha. 

Still.

Every so often he brought back something he thought James would like and they watched it together with Jiffy pop and a beer or two. Tonight he had something he would consider particularly special, if pressed on the subject. 

Back downstairs, Clint rummaged through the stuff he’d brought in, bypassing the box of trinkets and toys he’d picked up for Nate in various marketplaces he’d been to, instead heading for his duffle and pulling out the tape he’d picked up as soon as he got back to New York. He brandished it at James with a sense of triumph, more than happy with the grin that spread across James’ face when he caught sight of the cover. 

_The Mummy Returns_ was supposed to be nearly as good as the first movie, which he and James still watched with some regularity, especially if Clint turned up more injured than usual. It was old, familiar ground, comforting in its predictability. Clint was excited to watch the second one, ready to add another favorite to his collection.

“You grab a shower and I’ll get the dishes?” he suggested.

“I already did most of ‘em, but sure, knock yourself out scrubbing the skillet,” James told him, before turning to head for his bedroom. Clint heard the click of the door and then the distant sound of the water heater protesting the overuse before he headed into the kitchen. Sure enough, there was a skillet soaking in the sink, ready to be scrubbed out with a wire brush. 

Clint sighed and got to it. 

**

James came back downstairs in a pair of sweatpants Clint was almost sure had belonged to him, and a loose tank top that showed his arm all the way to the shoulder. For all that he’d settled into fatherhood with a quiet aplomb, he was still rocking mission-ready biceps and shoulders, and probably abs too, considering the fact his thighs strained the confines of the sweats. Clint squinted at him, sure something was different, and it took him a moment to parse that there was now dark ink around the edges of the arm, crossing over the old scarring. He could just barely see it around the edges of the tank, but sure enough it was there. 

“Is that a tattoo?” he asked, hearing the surprise in his own voice. 

And it was just like James to wear something he knew would reveal the damn thing instead of just telling Clint himself that he’d gone and had work done - not that Clint cared, it was James’ body to do with as he pleased, especially after all he’d been through - but he’d proven over and over again that he was much more likely to dump a surprise in your lap than use his words and tell you what was going on. 

Not that Clint was much better with feelings talk, but still.

James shrugged. “Yeah. I-” he cleared his throat, like he’d been planning his words and then forgot what he was going to say. “Just decided I wanted it, I guess.” 

“What’d you get?” Clint asked curiously. If anyone had asked him beforehand, he’d have said he wasn’t sure James would even be able to _get_ a tattoo. His enhanced metabolism meant he healed faster than average, and the file he’d given Clint had implied his body had tried to reject the arm several times before it took, which was part of why it was so scarred to begin with. Clearly he’d managed though, the looping black ink peeking around the edges of the arm holes and neck of the tank top in sharp curls. 

James pulled the strap aside, so that Clint could see the whole thing. It was words, he realized, as he cocked his head sideways to read them, curled around the edges of where his shoulder ended and the arm began. James must have left the prosthetic off to get the work done, because the arm was far too distinctive to be bared at any shop he might have gone to. 

_The End of the Line_ , it read, in complex loops and swoops, fine calligraphy interspersed with emphasizing lines. 

Clint blinked at him. The ink work was good, none of the lines were blown out despite how thin they were in some places, but the phrase was meaningless to him. Unless-

“That a Rogers thing?” he guessed. 

James gave him a short, sharp nod. He still didn’t remember a whole lot of life before Hydra had got hold of him, but he had dreams sometimes, and enough had come back for him to piece together most of the rest. “Something- it was something we used to say. Before. ‘To the end of the line.’” He shrugged, and pulled the strap of the tank back up, obscuring most of the words. “Then I fell off a train.”

“That’ll do it,” Clint murmured, eyes still fixed on where the edges of the tattoo moved with each flex of James’ arm. He felt like there was something he was meant to say, some reaction James was expecting from him, but Clint didn’t know what it was. It was James’ arm, and James’ body, and none of Clint’s business what he did with it. Maybe it was a way to remember a long-gone relationship, or James’ way of reclaiming that part of his life, or even laying it to rest, Clint didn’t know. He certainly wasn’t going to criticize a coping method that was probably better than any Clint had ever tried. 

There was a weighted silence, and then James dropped onto the couch, nearly upending the popcorn bowl and giving Clint an expectant look. “Are we watching the movie or not?”

Clint rolled his eyes, but lifted the remote to hit play, already absorbed as soon as the first preview showed up. 

**

Two weeks on the farm didn’t feel like nearly long enough and far too soon it was time for Clint to head back to New York. He had a sloppily-wrapped gift for Natasha’s birthday that was ostensibly from Nathan in his bag and a whole new set of memories stored up to take back with him, and that would have to be enough. 

“Be safe,” James told him gruffly, Nathan hiked up in his arm despite his insistent squirming. Nate was past the days of throwing a fit when Clint left, thank god, but that didn’t stop him from trying to wrap himself around Clint’s leg like an octopus to keep him in place. He was nearly strong enough for it to work, too, especially with some part of Clint always clamoring to stay where he was. Not that he didn’t like his job or that he never wanted to go back, but some part of him always wanted to stay behind and insinuate himself into this cozy little life James was building for himself and Nathan.

Not for Clint. He had to remind himself every time that this tiny corner of the world was for him to visit and not for him to stay. Some times were harder than others and this was one of those times for some reason. 

Maybe it was the easy way James had welcomed him back, or the fact that Nate was turning into a proper little person with opinions and hobbies and firm likes and dislikes. He could hold a conversation now and he slept through the night and every time Clint came back to the farm he was a little bit bigger and a little bit smarter, and some part of Clint hated that he was missing out on it. 

This wasn’t his place though. He was welcome whenever he wanted, but it was a life James was building for himself and for Nate, and Clint was just a spectator. Like a favorite uncle who came to visit once in a while and he needed to remember that. 

“I’ll do my best,” Clint said, instead of one of the million things that was crowding up in his chest that he couldn’t even articulate. 

James snorted and Clint got into the car, backing it out of the yard and heading for the road as Nate waved goodbye. James stood on the porch, holding Nathan, and watched Clint drive away, until he was far enough away that Clint couldn’t pick him out in the rearview mirror anymore. 

**

His apartment in New York felt vaguely hollow when he got back to it, empty in a way he was used to but didn’t like. 

It was lonely, even if he didn’t want to admit it, after weeks at the farm surrounded by animals and Nate and James. 

He tried calling Nat, but she didn’t pick up, so then he did the next best thing and called Bobbi.

**

“What is wrong with you?” Natasha asked, dodging the punch Clint aimed for her chest, twisting gracefully out of the way and grabbing his wrist as she did so, nearly yanking him off balance. He dropped to the ground and tangled his feet up in hers to bring her to the floor, but she turned the fall into a tumble and rocked back onto her toes a few feet away.

“Nothing,” Clint said, sounding grumpy even to himself. 

Nat arched an eyebrow before launching herself at him in a flurry of punches and kicks. He took a knee to the solar plexus and got tripped up at the ankles before he managed to roll away and come up in a crouch. 

“You’re sloppy,” Natasha told him. “Distracted.”

Clint flopped onto his back with a sigh. “Why does everyone keep _saying_ that? I’m fine!”

“Who is everyone?” Natasha asked, taking advantage of Clint’s tantrum to stretch her arms and spine. 

“You. Bobbi.” Clint snorted. “Everyone who matters, I guess.”

Nat rolled her eyes. “You need to stop fucking Bobbi Morse every time you’re lonely,” she informed him. “And you are distracted. Get up.”

“I’m not lonely,” Clint argued, but obligingly climbed to his feet. They were in the SHIELD gym, but at 1:00 in the morning they weren’t likely to be overheard. “I’m a man with needs.”

She didn’t dignify that with a reply, instead twisting into a backflip slash kick that ended up with her thighs around Clint’s head as she wrestled him to the ground. 

“I hate when you do that,” he informed her from where he was pinned by her knees around his face. 

“So what were you using Bobbi to distract yourself from?” Nat asked, settling herself more comfortably on top of him so that he couldn’t really move. 

Well, he could move, if he wanted to twist and bend to dislodge her and turn this into a dirty fight instead of a casual sparring session. Not that Natasha hadn’t already turned it dirty with her neck breaking thigh maneuver. She wasn’t supposed to use that one on him, they had an agreement. 

“Nothing,” Clint told her. “I wasn’t distracted.” The word ‘used’ was also rankling, even though Clint and Bobbi had long had an understanding that they were using each other for stress relief, because he knew that wasn’t what Nat meant when she said it

Natasha tightened her knees until Clint could feel enough pressure to make him uncomfortable. “You keep using that word but I do not think it means what you think it means.”

“I regret ever showing you that movie,” Clint informed her. 

She squeezed her legs just hard enough to cut off his air for a handful of seconds. “What were you thinking about?”

Clint rolled his eyes. “Just… stuff. The house. Fences.” Even in a SHIELD exercise room, Clint had to be careful what he said. Maybe especially in a SHIELD exercise room. 

“The people?” Natasha asked, her voice carefully neutral.

He squinted at her, trying to suss out the meaning behind her words and unable to come up with anything particularly damning. “Sure, I guess.”

“You’re an idiot,” she told him. 

Clint shrugged as best he could underneath her. That wasn’t news. 

“Maybe the problem was that you were with Bobbi,” Nat suggested, crossing her arms and settling in. It alleviated some of the pressure on his throat, at least, even if it meant she was resting her not-negligible weight on his chest. “Maybe you weren’t missing _her_ company.”

It took Clint a minute, it really did, before he figured out exactly what she was implying, and Clint felt his jaw drop in shock for a few breathless seconds before he recovered. 

“It’s not like that,” he said.

“Isn’t it?” Natasha said, eyebrows up around her hairline. “Isn’t it exactly like that?”

“ _I’m_ not like that,” Clint hissed, automatically lowering his voice even though they were still alone. 

“Like what?” Nat asked archly, lowering her voice to match his. “Like someone who risks his life for his family? Like someone who cares about another person enough to wonder about their fences and what they’re doing when you’re gone- to worry about them?”

“I never said I didn’t care,” Clint argued, and now they were both muttering furiously at each other. “I just said it wasn’t _like that_. It’s not-” he fumbled for words “-it’s not like a _sex_ thing. I’m not-” he stopped, trying to find his words.

Nat waited him out, but Clint didn’t have the vocabulary to articulate his thoughts. It was a pervading feeling of panic that didn’t even make sense, the ghost of his father’s voice drunkenly ranting about fairies and his brother punching the queer out of him and a million other reasons that Clint had neither planned nor wanted to address. 

Clint was just fine the way he was, thank you very much. 

“I’m fine,” he told her, like that would make all the confusion in his head go away. Like saying it out loud would make it true.

“You’re lonely,” she countered.

He shrugged. 

“ _Durak_ ,” she said, but it was almost fond. “Go home. See your family. Come back when you’re ready to be my partner - you’re going to get shot because you’re thinking of cornfields.”

It was all suddenly more than Clint could take. He twisted his spine and arched up, throwing Nat off of his chest into a still-graceful heap on the mat beside him. He got to his feet and stalked towards the door without another word. Nat let him go, folding her legs up underneath herself and watching him with eyes that saw far too much. As he slammed his way out of the gym door, he could hear her swearing under her breath.


	2. Chapter 2

Clint did not go home. Either the one Natasha meant - and that _wasn’t_ his home and hadn’t been since he was a kid, it was James’ home, James and Nathan, with no need for Clint at all - or his apartment in Bed-Stuy. Instead, he found himself in the corner of a bar he liked to frequent, sipping moodily at whatever the bartender had concocted for him and watching the dancefloor. It was dark enough that Clint could go mostly unnoticed, and the crowd old enough that he could blend in. 

He was well on his way to being in a complete funk when a group of girls tumbled their way to the bar near him and one of them landed nearly in his lap, shrieking with laughter and apologies. 

“Sorry, sorry,” she said, smiling and shooting her friends dirty looks. She was cute - tall and willowy, with sharp cheekbones and large eyes, and Clint suddenly couldn’t think of a better way to get Nat’s words out of his head than to distract himself with something else altogether. 

“No worries,” Clint said, grinning. “I’m Clint,” he offered, holding out his hand. “And you’re the best thing that’s happened to me all night.”

**

It started to become a habit. A habit that Natasha noticed, giving him disapproving stares whenever Clint took himself out for the night, either after a day of training or a long mission, picking up whatever pretty girl caught his eye and was willing to go home with him for a night. 

He ignored the hollow feeling afterwards, when he sent them home with a kiss on the cheek and thanks for a good time and definitely _not_ his phone number or the promise of anything else. 

He ignored the fact that none of it even came close to driving the intrusive thoughts out of his brain. He still caught himself wondering what James and Nate were doing at any given time - wondering if they’d finished Dog’s lean-to or if she was still spending her evenings in the kitchen to keep warm, wondering if Nate had learned any new words this week. He knew James was keeping up with the sign language lessons, and Clint also knew his own sign language - painstakingly learned as a kid when his hearing was less reliable - was rusty as hell even though it was something he _should_ be working on because of his own now-permanent hearing damage. He could hear well enough for missions and day-to-day life, but a sinus infection or cold always ended with Clint deaf as a post and fumbling through fingerspelling to communicate with Nat. The effort to make sure they could all communicate with Clint - even when he was sick or tired - was more effort than anyone else in Clint’s life had ever made, barring Barney, and it twisted him up inside in ways he couldn’t quite express. 

Clint also still caught himself hung up on Natasha’s hissed admonitions, especially late at night when his bed was empty and he couldn’t distract himself with warm skin and muffled sounds of pleasure. 

He didn’t call Bobbi again, even though they’d had an on-and-off friends with benefits thing for years, not since the last time when she’d called him out on being distracted in the first place, and he’d made the critical mistake of mentioning it to Nat. Instead he picked up one night stands and tried to pretend everything was just fine, thank you very much.

In short, he was miserable, and frankly, he was mad at Natasha about it. If she’d just left well enough alone, Clint wouldn’t be left with this aimless, drifting feeling. He wouldn’t be daydreaming about some nebulous _more_ that he couldn’t have, or lying awake at night and wishing he was at the farm instead of in his empty bed in Bed-Stuy.

He definitely wouldn’t be wondering whether James wondered about _him_ , or replaying Natasha’s words over and over in his head, simultaneously terrified she was right and hoping she wasn’t wrong. 

So they went on missions here and there, and trained recruits, and ate lunch in the caf together, and then Clint packed up and went to his apartment and Natasha did whatever it was Natasha did in her downtime and he wasn’t _ignoring_ her per se, but he was practicing a little bit of strategic avoidance. 

He’d been perfectly fine before she’d set off a bomb inside his skull, and now he was a hot shit disaster. 

**

Clint woke up to being tapped on the forehead by a sharp nail. He flinched, reaching for the gun that wasn’t where it was supposed to be, and why wasn’t it where it was supposed to be, and as he rolled he encountered a warm body pressed against his back and oh yeah, that was why. It was a bad idea to sleep with a gun under your pillow when there was a civilian in your bed. 

And if the girl - Heather, Clint thought her name was Heather - was behind him, then who the fuck was tapping him? 

He opened his eyes to find Natasha glaring down at him from her perch on a chair she’d clearly dragged in from the kitchen. She looked like a malevolent gargoyle, clutching a mug of coffee with her mouth pressed into a thin, white line. 

“Wake up,” she said. “You’re going to miss your flight.”

Next to him, Heather woke up grumbling, first snuggling into Clint’s shoulders and then leaning up on an elbow to see what was happening. Clint realized the instant she caught sight of Nat, because her whole body went tense. He sighed. 

“Nat,” he groaned, collapsing onto his back, “go the fuck away.”

She sipped her coffee slowly, ignoring him. “I’m your ride to the airport, idiot, so you might as well get up.”

“What the f- airport?”

Nat hummed. “We have to leave in twenty minutes.” She gave Heather a thin smile. “Nice to meet you, I’m Natasha.”

“I’m- Heather?” The poor girl sounded so confused, but Clint was just relieved he’d remembered her name correctly. 

“Nat,” he said, grouchy and annoyed, “if you don’t get the fuck out I’m going to get up and you’re going to get an unfortunate show.”

She shrugged. “Nothing I haven’t seen before.” But she climbed down from the chair and sauntered out of the room, like she hadn’t dropped a fucking bomb in the middle of Clint’s morning-after.

“Fucking christ,” Clint muttered, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Sorry,” he said, turning to look at Heather. “My sister,” he lied. “She’s an asshole.”

Heather gave him a suspicious look. “She doesn’t look like your sister.”

“Yeah,” Clint agreed, stretching and sitting up. “We’ve got different dads. C’mon, if you want a shower, I’ll wash your back.” 

“I’m good,” she said, shaking her head. It was a good thing Clint hadn’t planned to ever call her again, because it was clear that this was a dealbreaker situation, even though he was being friendly and charming and affable, and not taking his frustration with Natasha out on her. She climbed out of the bed, giving Clint a really excellent view as she moved around the room to gather her clothes and tug them back on. She’d been wearing a cropped tank and painted-on jeans, and Clint felt bad she was having to do a walk of shame at- he turned to look at the clock, and Jesus it wasn’t even 7am yet. Fucking Natasha. 

“You want a sweatshirt or something?” he offered.

“I-” she looked down at herself. “Sure, if you’re okay with not getting it back.”

Well, at least she was honest.

Clint dragged himself out of bed and pulled his boxers on before wandering over to the dresser pulling a sweatshirt out at random. Heather pulled it over her head, ruffling her already mussed hair even further, and cuffing the sleeves when they came down well past her fingertips. The sweatshirt was old and worn in, and Clint couldn’t help but think that at least it looked cute on her. It wasn’t one he’d miss anyway, so it didn’t matter. 

“Lemme call you a cab at least,” he said, instead, and she gave him another suspicious look before she agreed with a short nod. 

In the kitchen, Natasha was waiting by the bar, a to-go cup of coffee and a pastry bag sitting innocently next to her. She was swinging her feet just above the stool’s footrest, because even though in the field she was larger than life the reality was that Natasha barely scraped past five feet, all the better to fool you with. Heather gave her a hesitant look, but Nat had apparently decided that tormenting an innocent soul with her trademark sick sense of humor wasn’t on the agenda today, because she just smiled at her and jerked her chin at the treats. “I brought extra,” she said, like this was a thing she did regularly. “I wasn’t sure how you’d take your coffee, so it’s black, but there’s sugar and Clint _probably_ has milk that isn’t expired. And there’s a cruller.”

Heather gave Clint another hesitant look, but he just shrugged in response. If she didn’t take the coffee that was more for him. “Thank you,” she said, and then gave Clint a significant look. 

He sighed and headed for the phone on the wall, making the promised call to the taxi service, who assured him someone would be downstairs in five minutes. 

“I had fun,” he told Heather, as he ushered her out the door with a hand on her lower back and the coffee and cruller in her arms. 

“Well,” she said, finally cracking what looked like a real smile - and it was a little crooked and she had a dimple in her left cheek, and Clint suddenly remembered that’s what had caught his attention under the neon bar lights, that halfway smirk and its hidden dimple - “it’s been real.” She brushed a kiss against his jaw, and walked away.

Clint shut the door and turned back to Nat, fully prepared to lose his temper, but she waved honest-to-god plane tickets at him. 

“I wasn’t kidding about the flight.” She thrust a travel mug of coffee at him. “Shower coffee. Go. If you miss the plane I’ll kill you myself and mail your body instead.”

Clint took the mug to the shower with him like he was told, gulping it down far too quickly and wondering what the fuck Coulson had got him into this time. 

They were halfway to La Guardia when it occurred to him to wonder why he was flying commercial for a SHIELD mission. “Where the fuck am I going?” he asked. “And why aren’t you going with me?”

“Heather seemed nice,” Nat deflected, deftly navigating early morning New York City traffic. 

Clint scrubbed a hand over his face. There hadn’t been time to shave, and his stubble scraped roughly against his palm. “Nat, I swear to god-”

“Cute haircut. Nice jawline.”

That brought Clint up short. Heather _had_ had a nice jawline. And her dark hair had been cut in a layered bob around her face. 

In fact, nearly all his recent bed partners had had short dark hair and sharp jawlines and the occasional dimple and-

And blue eyes. 

“God fucking _dammit_ ,” he muttered. 

Nat hummed. “Finally figured it out, I take it?”

“I hate you.”

“You don’t,” she assured him. 

He didn’t, not really, except for how he sort of did in this moment. And several moments over the last few weeks, as she’d forced him to re-evaluate everything he thought he knew about himself and his life. 

She pulled to a stop in front of the American Airlines sign at the terminal, then reached behind the seat of the borrowed SHIELD sedan to hand him a small duffle and a paper envelope with airplane tickets. “Enjoy your vacation,” she said.

“What vacation?”

“The month-long vacation you requested from Coulson last week.”

Clint blinked at her. He absolutely had not requested a month-long anything from Coulson, and certainly not fresh off an op in Romania. He’d avoided debrief, medical, and Natasha in order to go back to his apartment and sleep for 16 hours, wrapped up in a blanket he’d ostensibly bought for himself but he’d been thinking of James when he grabbed it at the market. 

“I forged your signature,” she said flatly. “Now get out of the car and go work your shit out.” The locks on the doors clicked to punctuate her statement. 

**

The ticket was for Cedar Rapids, because where else would Nat have sent him? Clint got there on a non-stop flight that had him landing before lunch time, and found there was already a rental car waiting in his name. He was long past the angry disbelief that had propelled him through security and onto the plane - because not going wasn’t an option, since there was every possibility that Nat would simply drug him and drive him out there, and roll his unconscious body out of the car into the front yard before driving off again - and was left with a numb sense of _this might as well happen_. 

He spent the drive from the airport to the house with his mind going in circles. He was going to be here for a month. He was very carefully avoiding thinking of it as _home_ , even though it was exactly how it felt and probably how he’d thought of it every time before now. Only now it felt like forbidden fruit he was afraid to reach for, or like a bomb he wasn’t sure didn’t have a pressure trigger before he touched it, or some combination of those things. He pulled into the yard and put the car into park and tried to just breathe around the overwhelming sense of _something_ that was bubbling up in his chest. 

He forced himself out of the driver’s seat, and scooped the duffle out of the back and tried to prepare himself. It was absurd that he even felt like this, in the one place that had seemed like a refuge for the last couple of years, and part of him hated Natasha for ruining that for him. 

The screen door of the house flung open and slammed shut with a bang that Clint couldn’t help but flinch back from. He knew it wasn’t anything dangerous, because he was in the safest place in possibly the world, but that didn’t stop the reflex. He wasn’t even sure if it was instinct born of too much time in the field lately, or the anxiety that was dogging his every step now that he was back in Iowa. 

A chubby-cheeked preschooler tumbled out of the door, shrieking. “Dad!!!! Daaaaad!!!!” 

Clint scooped him up, wiping a smear of _something_ off his cheek with his thumb. “I’m not your dad, kid. Your dad’s inside. I’m _Clint_.” 

Nathan stared at him with all-too-familiar grey eyes, then patted Clint solemnly on the cheek with a pudgy hand. “Dad,” he said, stubbornly.

Clint sighed. 

He carried Nathan inside on his hip, easily supporting his weight on one arm. James appeared around the corner, wiping his hands on a dishtowel, and eyeing Clint. “I wasn’t expecting you,” he pointed out, but he didn’t sound upset about it. Clint couldn’t help but notice how well his jeans fit, and how the sweatshirt he was wearing was stretched across his shoulders, or the fact that his hair was pulled back to reveal that cut-glass jawline Clint hadn’t even known he’d been noticing, and he hated Natasha just a little bit more. Maybe he wouldn’t have noticed those things before - or maybe he’d been noticing them the whole time and not cataloguing it. It was impossible to unpick his motivations now, or do anything other than let himself look.

It didn’t hurt anyone for Clint to look, right?

And in fairness, Clint hadn’t expected to be here, but he knew better than to say that. The time to reveal Natasha’s machinations was not now, and possibly not ever. So he shrugged. “Got some time off,” was the only explanation he offered.

“Papa!” Nate exclaimed cheerfully. He patted Clint on the chest. “Dad’s home!”

The words hit Clint a little like a punch to the gut, stealing his breath for the half second it took him to process them. Leave it to a three-year old to leave Clint feeling even more off balance than he already had. 

James snorted. “I see that,” he said, giving Clint a crooked half-smile, revealing a _fucking dimple_ , then disappeared back into the kitchen, leaving Clint to follow. 

“I keep telling him it’s Clint,” Clint said apologetically, trailing behind. The kid was utterly insistent on calling Clint ‘Dad’, regardless of what Clint had to say about it, even though he cheerfully called Natasha ‘Auntie Nat’ with very little prompting. “Sorry.” 

James shrugged. “It’s fine. He knows who you are and he knows who I am; it doesn’t matter to me what he calls you.”

The mixture of emotions that swirled in Clint’s chest was pretty much impossible to separate. There was a bit of guilt and a little bit of warm pride, and a whole lot of confusion, and Clint chose to ignore all of it. He was getting very good at ignoring feelings that he didn’t want to acknowledge these days. Although he had a feeling that the time he was going to be spending here was going to destroy that carefully built wall of denial. 

Clint just hoped it didn’t destroy anything else.

Nathan squirmed until Clint sat him on the floor, and then he ran over to the fridge to grab a scribbled piece of paper that was stuck there with a magnet and bring it back to Clint. He shoved it upwards until Clint took it, studying the swirling riot of colors. There were some stick-like figures that looked vaguely like people, and something else that might have been a four-legged creature, if you squinted. “I drawed another picture!”

“Yeah buddy,” Clint told him, “it’s a great drawing. You did a good job.”

Nathan grinned, and Clint’s heart flipped over in his chest.

Fucking Natasha.

The drawing got replaced on the fridge, and Clint got tugged into the living room to build block towers, and James did chores around the house like there was nothing unusual about Clint’s presence there and slowly but surely, Clint relaxed. There was comfort in the routine, in knowing that life on the farm continued on in the same rhythm whether Clint was there to witness it or not. 

He got put to work on a fence, holding posts and boards in place while James hammered or measured or dug holes, and he entertained Nathan while James cooked dinner, and it was all dangerously domestic and Clint loved every second of it. Even, or maybe especially, the part where Dog tried to push her way through the dog door and got stuck, and James had to turn around and force her back out the door to her recently-completed little lean-to. Watching him mutinously argue with a stubborn goat made Clint’s chest tighten up in weird, warm ways that didn’t even make sense. 

Fuck, he hated when Nat was right. 

He watched James cook, the way he moved smoothly around the small kitchen, bare feet peeking out underneath jeans that were a little frayed at the hem. He watched as James skillfully diced ingredients, and absently responded to Nathan’s commentary, and he wondered… a lot of things. 

Most of them centered on whether Natasha was right about _everything_. 

**

“Do you date?” Clint blurted out, his beer halfway to his mouth as he watched James pack away what was left of dinner. Nathan was safely tucked away in bed, three stories and a back pat later, and James had had a cold beer waiting for him when Clint came downstairs to sit at the kitchen table while he cleared up the last of the mess. 

Clint had never thought of himself as anything like smooth, but that was a bad opening even for him. And part of his brain was screaming at him, because he was here for a whole month, and it was going to be super fucking awkward if he ruined everything his first night back. But the other part of his brain couldn’t stop chewing on Nat’s words, and the parade of dark-haired, blue-eyed women in his bed, and the way he missed the farm with a visceral intensity when he was gone. And Clint had a long history of ruining things head-on.

James’ shoulders went tense and then relaxed. “When would I date?” he asked mildly, popping lids on containers. 

“I dunno,” Clint said, “when Nate’s in school?”

James snorted. “Lunch dates? Where I can’t explain my past, my arm, my kid, or my life? No Clint, I don’t date.”

Clint turned that over in his mind. There were probably ways around all that. James had enough of a made-up past that fitted with his real past that he could date if he really wanted. Even the arm could be worked around - called a prosthetic, pretended it was a war injury or a car accident, or hell he could tell people he got it caught in a wood chipper. It had happened to a guy Clint had known as a kid. People probably wouldn’t ask too many questions. 

“Do you think about dating?” Clint was talking around the questions and thoughts he really wanted to voice, and he knew it; he had a feeling James knew it too.

James sighed. “No Clint, I don’t think about dating. I got all I want here. I got a family and a house and some chickens and a very stupid goat. I don’t have any aspirations of dating.” He sounded tense and unhappy and Clint didn’t know if that was because he wanted to think about dating and felt he couldn’t, or if it was something else entirely. He was kind of scared to ask. But then, it felt like he was scared of a lot of things recently. 

Scared of himself, mostly, if he were being honest. Scared of the things that were in his head, things he wanted and wasn’t sure he could have, and was kind of scared to reach for them. 

The silence stretched for a long time, past awkward until it circled back into easy and comfortable as James relaxed, so of course Clint had to go and ruin it.

“Nat says I’m in love with you,” Clint blurted. 

That made James freeze, made him hold completely still for one breath-taking second, and then he very gently sat the container he was packing down on the counter and turned to face Clint. He was wiping his hands on a towel as he scrutinized Clint’s face. Clint forced himself to meet James’ gaze, even though what he wanted to do was flinch away from it, to stare at his beer bottle and pretend the words he’d just said hadn’t come out of his mouth at all.

“Natalia doesn’t know nearly as much as she pretends she does,” James said, after a long moment spent scrutinizing Clint. 

“No,” Clint agreed, “but she usually knows me.”

“ _Are_ you in love with me?” James asked, like it was a casual question, and not the edge of a precipice Clint hadn’t anticipated being on. 

“I don’t know,” Clint said, quietly. He thought about his flash-bang marriage to Bobbi, and various sundry affairs he’d had in the past, and the one night stands he’d had much more recently, and knew that the relationship he had with James was different. James was _family_ in a way that Clint’s own family had never been, and he loved Nathan and he loved Nat, and _sure_ he loved James, but he wasn’t sure he _love_ -loved James. He didn’t really know how to tell. He couldn’t think of a single thing he wouldn’t do for James, but then, he couldn’t think of anything he wouldn’t do for Nat either. 

But he knew he wasn’t in love with Natasha.

It stood to reason he should _know_ he wasn’t in love with James, the same way he was certain he wasn’t in love with Nat, whatever the office gossip pool believed, but he _wasn’t_ certain.

“Maybe,” Clint said, after a second, finally dropping his gaze to pick at the label of his beer bottle. If he couldn’t say no, then he shouldn’t say yes, right? But… the glimmer of possibility was there, like the grey light of dawn just before the sun broke over the horizon. Like it could be something breathtaking and beautiful, if he waited for it. If he was patient. 

The fact he was using sunrise metaphors was probably a good indicator that Nat was right, actually. Clint slumped into his chair. 

“Are you even queer?” James asked, sounding cautious. Like he was also somewhere unexpected and without a roadmap and needed to tread carefully.

“I don’t know that either,” Clint said. He’d not thought he was, but he’d been slapped around often enough as a kid to know that his dad had thought he was, his brother had thought he was, and that had been plenty of incentive to shove any inclinations in that direction down as far as they would go. “Maybe? I- I don’t _know_ ,” he said, helplessly. “I just know this feels like home, and I miss you when I’m gone, and I think about you when I shouldn’t, and it’s not just because of Nate, or the house, or the fucking goat. I just miss _you_.”

It was probably the most honest admission Clint had ever made. He hadn’t even known it was true until he’d said it out loud.

James studied him some more, still unconsciously wiping his hands on the towel, though his fingers had to be clean by now. 

“I don’t date because I’ve been in love with you for years,” James said abruptly, like he’d come to the decision to speak in the same moment that the words found their way out of his mouth. “I don’t think I’d date anyway, for all the same reasons, but there’s nothing missing from my life. I meant what I said. I have a family and a home and goddamn idiot goat and I don’t _need_ anything else. There’s nothing missing. Even if we’re never anything but this, you’re still here. You still come home, you’re still my family - you and Nate and Natalia - and that’s more than I ever thought I deserved.”

Clint opened his mouth to say - something? Hell, he didn’t know what to say. He hadn’t known James felt that way, though Natasha apparently had. He was unprepared for reciprocity, he’d just been trying to tell James why he was here and what was going on in his head. Not whatever this was. James barrelled on without him though. 

“This is bigger than my wildest dreams,” James informed him, still as placid as the surface of a pond. “I didn’t used to have dreams at all, and when I escaped with Nathan - when you helped me escape with Nathan - the most I hoped for was a quiet life hidden away, forever looking over my shoulder.” He cocked his head at Clint a little, like he was studying him anew. Like he was seeing something he’d never seen before. “So if you think you’re in love with me, that just-” He shook his head, like the idea was completely unbelievable. 

Something about that rankled, though Clint couldn’t have said why. “I don’t-” Clint started and then shut his mouth. Opened it again. “I’m not in love with Nat,” he said, nonsensically. 

James laughed, and it sounded a little, not hysterical, but like some kind of pressure being released. “That’d be awkward.”

“Yeah,” Clint responded. “I guess. But the point is I know I’m not in love with her, and I- shouldn’t I _know_ that about you? If it’s not- if _I’m_ not?”

James shrugged, kinda helpless. “I’m not in love with her either, if that helps.” He was leaning his hip against the counter, with his arms crossed, the towel and the tupperware forgotten. There was a streak of flour on his jeans, and Clint was pretty sure the flannel shirt he was wearing was Clint’s, with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows. Strands of hair were escaping from the low ponytail he’d tied it back in, and he was smirking, a little, though his eyes were kinda tight around the edges, and Clint wanted him in a bone-deep way he’d never wanted anything else. 

Not like- it wasn’t lust, really. Clint didn’t have enough technical knowledge of what that might entail to have any sort of real thoughts on the subject. Though he thought that might change, maybe, if he could fumble his way through this conversation. 

“I want this,” he managed. “I want- whatever this is, I want it. I want you.”

“You have it,” James said gently. More gently than Clint had ever maybe heard him, except a few times late at night with Nathan when he was a baby. “You already have that. Just because Natalia thinks something - that you’re in love with me, or that we should… be together like that - you don’t have to be. The way you are right now, the way _we_ are - that’s enough for me.”

Clint felt like he was two steps behind everyone. The idea that James was in love with him, had _been_ in love with him for years, that he’d just… planned to not say anything. Ever, apparently. That Natasha had probably known, even if James had never told her. Even though Clint hadn’t even known himself that he was feeling more than just… like family.

And now James was saying ‘oh it’s fine, I’ll just love you from afar, this is perfectly okay’ like Clint wasn’t basically carving his own heart out with a rusty spoon to try and communicate something else entirely. 

“Unrequited love is far from the worst thing that’s ever happened to me,” James said wryly. He turned back to put away the storage containers like he hadn’t just upended Clint’s entire worldview. 

“What if it’s not unrequited?” 

James turned back to him, eyebrows raised. “Clint, you just told me thirty seconds ago you didn’t know how you felt.”

“That’s not what I said. I said I didn’t know if it was _love_. How do you know? I just know that I want to be here, all the time. I think about you, all the time. I think about you when I shouldn’t. Nat keeps yelling at me for being distracted. I just- I want _this_.” Clint gestured helplessly. “But I don’t know if that’s love. It feels… big.”

Clint had been married before, okay. He’d thought he was in love with Bobbi Morse, and it hadn’t felt a thing like this. Being with Bobbi had felt like the flash-bang of a firework, all excitement and bright lights and then the fizzle of disappointment when it ended. Clint didn’t know what it felt like to _be_ with James, but what they had felt strong and enduring and comfortable in a way that being with Bobbi had never been. With Bobbi there was always an edge of competition, a sharpness to their relationship, that Clint had never felt with James. 

Whatever these feelings were in Clint’s chest that felt like they were choking him half the time didn’t feel like fireworks and friendly rivalry, it felt like _home_. It felt like the comfort of _knowing_ someone, inside and out, of being known in return and accepted. The domesticity of a home-cooked meal and putting a kid to bed and feeling _wanted_ and not just tolerated. 

And it seemed like James was trying to talk Clint out of the very thing he wanted, which kinda stung. 

“If you don’t- I know I’m a mess and it’s not helping that I can’t tell you what I’m trying to say, so I get it if you don’t wanna- but I’m here and I want to try.”

“Try?” James looked wary, now, and that-

Clint hadn’t meant it to come out like that, and this was why he was a shitshow at relationships. “I don’t mean like experiment, that’s not- I don’t know what I’m doing, but I want to try to do it right.”

There was a long moment where James watched Clint, his expression serious and guarded while he decided… something. Clint wasn’t even really sure what he was asking for, and he certainly hadn’t expressed it very well, but after a second James seemed to soften. “Okay,” he said slowly, like he knew as well as Clint did that he didn’t know what he was really agreeing to. “Okay, we can try. If you want.”

“I want. I really, really want.”

James smiled, like he was tucking laughter behind his teeth, and there was that dimple in his left cheek that Clint would have sworn he’d never noticed before but he must have because, well, it’d been recently pointed out to him that he maybe had a type and-

“Can I kiss you?” Clint blurted out. 

“Move fast, don’t you?” James said, but he was still smiling, still gently amused. “Yeah, you can kiss me. If you want. I don’t put out on the first date though, so if you’re tryin’ to get in my pants you’ll have to work a little harder.”

“Wouldn’t know what to do with your pants if I got into them anyway,” Clint muttered, and he hadn’t really meant for James to hear him but James snorted with laughter anyway, then straightened up as Clint got up from the table and edged his way closer. 

The kiss should have been awkward. It wasn’t anything Clint had given any thought to, before he’d asked, wasn’t something he’d considered in the past. It wasn’t calculated or planned, or even leading anywhere, so it should have been an awkward thing. 

It wasn’t.

James was shorter than him, which was familiar, but that was where the similarities to all the kisses of Clint’s past ended. He was broad and muscular, and smelled faintly of woodsy soap and some kind of herbal shampoo, and his lips were soft and pliant under Clint’s and his stubble chafed just a little against Clint’s chin. The hands he put on Clint’s hips were tentative, not like he didn’t want to put them there but like he was scared of scaring Clint off. 

Clint stepped into it, instead, until their chests were pressed together, and that was different too, but not unwelcome. They’d spent enough time in close quarters, doing chores and sparring, and leaning into one another on the couch as they laughed at bad movies that everything about James’ touch was easy and familiar, except for the taste of his mouth. 

James’ hands were tentative but his mouth wasn’t, as he nipped at Clint’s bottom lip and swiped teasingly with his tongue. Clint groaned into the kiss and wrapped his hands around James’ jaw, tangling his fingers in the loosening strands of his hair as they kissed and kissed and kissed. James tasted like the beer they’d both been drinking, and Clint kissed him until there was nothing but the taste of James’ mouth on his tongue, until he’d backed James against the counter and pressed him into it, clinging to him as they devoured each others’ mouths. James’ hands weren’t soft or gentle anymore, they were gripping Clint’s hips hard enough to bruise and Clint-

Clint broke away gasping for air, his chest heaving and his entire body pressed against James and vibrating with arousal he didn’t quite know what to do with. James had a thigh wedged between his, and Clint was pretty sure he’d been grinding against it up until a few seconds ago. 

“Fuck,” he managed, and his mouth felt swollen, his lips numb and tingly. 

“Not on the first date,” James reminded him, but he sounded wrecked, all his earlier amusement choked down by heated want.

“Christ.” Clint ducked back down, his mouth finding James’ unerringly, and lost himself to kissing him again and again, until James was the one easing them back, shortening the kisses little by little, until he was leaving soft presses of his mouth against Clint’s lips, and the corner of his smile, and eventually on his chin. 

Clint forced himself to step away on legs that felt a little shaky. “That was…” he trailed off, unsure what word to use. Unexpected, sure. Earth-shattering, maybe. 

James looked as rocked by it as Clint felt, disheveled against the kitchen counter and mouth swollen and red. He licked his lips and Clint followed the movement, barely repressing the urge to push him against the counter and mess him up even more. 

“Yeah,” James agreed, looking like he wouldn’t object to Clint doing a bit more messing him up. 

Except they’d reached the full extent of what Clint had any idea about, and he was thinking maybe he needed to spend some quality time with the internet to figure out just what the fuck he was meant to do with the rest of it. 

Right after he spent some quality time in a hot shower with his left hand. 

“I should…” His words trailed off again, but Clint gestured towards the stairs and took a half-step back.

“Yeah,” James said again, his voice low and husky. He cleared his throat. “Me too.”

“Goodnight?” And there was the awkwardness Clint had been expecting, but it was the gentle kind of awkward that came at the end of an evening you weren’t quite ready to be over.

James sent him a sly sort of smirk, and then stepped into Clint’s space again, sliding a hand to the small of his back. “Goodnight,” he said firmly, and then pressed an exaggerated kiss to Clint’s cheek and sauntered out of the room. 

Jesus Christ, Clint hadn’t known James had _moves._

**Author's Note:**

> This universe is a genuine labor of love for me, and I unabashedly and wholeheartedly adore the entire premise. I also unabashedly and wholeheartedly apologize to everyone who's had to hear about it from me for approximately the last nine million years. I'm sorry. I'm so so sorry. Especially Amy, Nny, and Steph. I love you guys, thanks for humoring me at all times, you're the best.
> 
> Especially to Steph, who always helps me find my way when a story missteps or goes off the rails completely - she is the most patient and supportive cheerleader and friend that I could have. 
> 
> The most thankful and humble appreciation to Nny, who beta read this to make sure it is the best fic that it can be <3
> 
> And finally to Feathers, for not only looking over some bits of the fic for authenticity, but also answering a load of extremely uncomfortable questions. Bless.


End file.
